


The Tournament

by calculatingMinutiae



Series: The Ghost of Glimwood Tangle [9]
Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon (Main Video Game Series), Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types, Pocket Monsters: Sword & Shield | Pokemon Sword & Shield Versions
Genre: (In the distant past), Anxiety Disorder, Bea and Allister are adoptive siblings, Gen, Ghost!Allister, Minor Character Death, Perfectionism, Social Anxiety
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-16
Updated: 2020-03-31
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:28:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22748602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calculatingMinutiae/pseuds/calculatingMinutiae
Summary: The Stow-on-side Area, 2016.There's a changing of the guard in Stow-on-side gym. Several will compete from near and far to gate the midpoint of the Galarian gym challenge. It's a big responsibility.There are some responsibilities coming alongside it that Bea never could have trained for.
Relationships: Onion | Allister & Saitou | Bea
Series: The Ghost of Glimwood Tangle [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1576204
Comments: 14
Kudos: 78





	1. Wandering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Glimwood Tangle, 2016.
> 
> On the eve of the Stow-on-side tournament, two challengers meet in the woods.
> 
> Allister tells a story. Bea gets lost.

Some people train the night before an important match by reviewing their opponents' teams and known tactics. Others practice special techniques and move executions in order to perfect an opening attack. But you?

You'd rather stay in your literal hole in the ground, _thanks._

Just visualizing the sheer _scale_ of Stow-on-side's local gym these days is more than enough to overwhelm you. The thought of not just having to exist in that space, not just having to _fight_ in that space, but to be _constantly watched while you do it?_

It shouldn't mean anything to you. You _know_ that. You are so incredibly exasperated, telling yourself _yet again_ that it's just a _place, with people in it,_ and that you have stared down objectively more frightening things in the Tangle alone. Hell, even _Opal_ is more terrifying than the lot of them, what with her faerie-like tendencies and inclination towards Chaos for Fun, so why. _Why_ does it make you freeze up? Why is there a burning cold shooting through your veins at the thought, why does it make you want to run in every direction at once while you know you can't escape, why does the presence of someone _other_ hanging over your head make you feel smothered, spotlit, like your only option is to disappoint? You know they can't hurt you. Nothing physical can really hurt you anymore, you are _a genuine spectre,_ but the rolling cramps in your chest wrack your whole makeshift body and you start to lose composure. Physically, mostly, but.

You _do not_ want the entire town to see you cry.

Which you are, right now, in your borrowed den in the bottom of a tree, in the middle of the Tangle where no one is, and you doubt any but Opal could find you. There is nothing to worry about, here. In a paradoxical twist of fate you are _safe_ here, so why are you sobbing into your jacket sleeve like it will make a difference?

Entering this tournament was a mistake.

Entering _society again_ was a mistake.

Sinistea tries to comfort you, but its stunning lack of articulable limbs other than a small, single hand makes it much more difficult than it'd envisioned. It isn't exactly cuddly or comfortable, being a haunted teacup. Though, in a stroke of brilliance, it snaps its fingers after having figured out who _is._

Mimi-kyuu!

Mimi is released from her dusk ball, just outside the hollow. She hops her way over to you, the ribbon Opal had tied around the neck of her disguise fluttering as she skips. She headbutts you without regard for her disguise becoming slick with tears.

_Hello! Hello-hello, is it time to play?_

_… Allister?_

You hug your Mimikyu by the disguise as tight as you can.

She starts to say something, only to stop herself. She, hesitantly, steps closer to the point of strain on her marvelous, ingenious disguise, and leans on you in return.

* * *

It's a foregone conclusion that you are going to win the tournament tomorrow. You have trained hard against your mother's psychic types since early childhood, learning to see through to their attack patterns. You have battling down to practically a science. All it takes to build skill is self-motivation, discipline, observation, and strong will. After fourteen years of life, you like to think that you have honed each pillar to a fine point, and have finally become ready to take your place among the League's pantheon.

After all, there is no alternative.

There is no contingency plan for what may happen should you lose tomorrow, simply because, if you lose tomorrow, then the girl who walked on stage only to fail cannot possibly be you. Should you lose, you will simply cease to exist. Your mother will disown you, town morale will come crashing into the ground, and even your family name will be soured into a curse on the wind. Should you lose, life as you know it now _will_ end, and there is no way to accurately project just what may take its place.

But you will not lose. So there is no sense in worrying about it.

You cross off tasks in your journal, meticulously migrating lesser tasks with simple arrows and blotting out the ones you've completed in thin, glossy gray ink. As you strike through the final spot of your evening training regimen, the ink dares to bleed a little at the sides, spidering through the cracks and flaws in the fibers of the page and dying them deep, dark gray.

You close the book with prejudice, swapping out your gray pen for a black one that is just as serviceable, if comparatively plain. It clips just as easily into the binding for when mother checks it over in the morning.

Perhaps, tonight, you ought to burn off a bit more energy before committing to sleep. There's no sense in wasting the newfound vigor boiling in your blood, especially with so, so many tiny imperfections to be ironing out. Perhaps you'll start by dismantling your fighting spirit's weakness to fairy types.

The Glimwood Tangle is quite a place to train, for a fighting specialist such as yourself. Most of its residents tend to be psychic, fairy, or _both_ as they spring out from tiny patches of grass obscured by the shadows, making it an ideal place to work on counter-strategies. You can only face your mother's same few species so many times before you know her methodology by heart, but these wild pokemon are not nearly so consistent. They are unpredictable.

It requires you to think on your feet. Even the normal types in the Tangle have also been imbued with a degree of psychic power, and the rare passimian is the only species you know to inhabit the place which does not have you at _some_ kind of disadvantage. The wandering spirits throughout this place cannot even be touched by your typical plan of attack, forcing you to include a wider range of type coverage in your movepool if you do not wish to be swiftly overrun. It's a terrible place, for you.

It's perfect.

You toss your Sirfetch'd's ultra ball skyward, planting your heels firmly in the soft dirt. The two of you slice through every phantump and sinistea with a well-placed Knock Off, while the hattrem and ponyta trip over themselves when you give them your First Impression. It's more difficult to stave off the fairies, though. It's as though they can communicate, somehow, the spritzee cooing to one another, the swirlix bounding out and out of bounds, and even the shiinotic tending to duck for cover. You grit your teeth. Soon enough, the entire path to Ballonlea is void of any pokemon, no matter how many mushrooms you touch. You're still not tired, still not _satisfied_ ; you cannot take the risk of losing, tomorrow. You simply cannot.

It pains you to think of it, at first, only for all of that apprehension to melt away the second you step over the stanchions marking the gym challenger's path. If you ever want to make your own rules, one day, it seems you'll have to break a few of your own.

You easily hop the fence, and venture to parts unknown.

* * *

It appears that sections of Glimwood Tangle are generally off-limits for a reason.

Bea sighs to herself, walking through the underbrush in her bare feet, stepping forward no matter the obstacles in her path. Training requires endurance on the part of the trainer, of course, and though the feel of twigs snapping under carefully-built callouses is different than the rocks she's accustomed to training on down on Route Six, she holds her breath and steels her stance to keep from showing the slightest perturbation as sticks splinter in her wake. Training is for the trainer just as much as the pokemon. She cannot slip up now.

Her loyal Sirfetch'd has been recalled into his ultra ball, in the interest of making sure she isn't separated from any of her partner pokemon when traversing the split ends of the Tangle. It seems as though she's been wandering forever, though she knows it's been minutes at most since she stepped off of the path. Psychic pokemon or not, this is a physical place with physical confines, is it not? Perhaps she'll find herself spat out on Route Ten, and _then_ find it suitable to turn back.

But the snow doesn't seem to come.

In fact, the atmosphere of the Tangle seems to change… _irregularly_ , when it does at all. She has been walking in a straight line that feels like spirals for no longer than half an hour, and she's already felt the air cool until she shivers and heat up until she's sweating _multiple times,_ and her patience is wearing thin. All she has to do is turn back the way she came, and.

No.

No, that doesn't look very much like the place she'd just been at all. There were no red mushrooms on the left side of the path, right?

Right?

No. No, no-no-no-no. She is not going to let this happen. She cannot possibly be getting _lost_ in these _stupid woods,_ that's improbable. Having travelled this far out, she should be on the cusp of the borderline. She just needs to keep moving. Just… keep. Moving.

She sighs, eventually leaning against a tree, mentally scolding herself.

_Part of discipline is knowing when to stop. There is no sense in trying to move a mountain in a night alone. You can decide to have patience or find allies to help you, but to do nothing and expect the earth to crumble at your feet is the mark of a fool._

_Or something like that,_ she huffs, looking up at the flock of spritzee swirling about like mist in the canopy. Of course she, in her overzealousness, would forge a self-fulfilling prophecy of failure. Of _course_ she would charge off like a hot-headed idiot into places unknown. Of _course she would, so why did they ever think she could handle being on her own!_

She whirls around and punches the tree as hard as she can, keeping proper form. It's somewhat satisfying to see the aspen quake after a single strike, spritzee scattering up above much like pidove on a wire. She sneezes as the commotion activates one of the bioluminescent mushrooms growing on the side of the trunk, which decides that now would be a wonderful time to spray a puff of spores directly in her face. Perhaps this could have been anticipated. This is something she should have expected, she knows the moment after she does it, and feels the punishment fair as appointed.

What she could _not_ have anticipated, however, is the sheen of something staring at her out from behind the tree. Something with _claws_.

She holds Machamp's ball at the ready.

In the sickly green light of the mushroom, she can see that her potential assailant is… small. _It's see, impidimp, possibly a hattrem, maybe a sinistea? Doubtful…_ It is small, and it is pale. _Swirlix?_ Naturally, her aggressor steps into the glow properly, and happens to be none of the above.

In fact, it's wearing a little pink ribbon.

"A mimikyu? You aren't meant to be living around here, little guy…."

Mimi _hisses,_ her claws drawn to a point. The shadows she casts are much larger than her body, no more than the size of a plush doll, and it practically _sneers_ at her waiting prey as the girl steps further, and further, back.

Bea has no moves to counteract a ghost _and_ fairy type. Fighting moves are ineffective, the bug type resisted four times, poison once, and even dark doing neutral damage. She needs a technique for it, it occurs to her too late, showing naught on her face but determination. She prepares to throw her ultra ball, and--

"NO! Hh… hh… y-you stop that."

The Mimikyu looks nothing short of _disappointed,_ turning back to face the source of the sound. It's a boy. A boy in a dusty old coat, with dirt in his hair, hair in his face, mask also in his face…

Hang on a tick, she's seen that mask before around town.

"Y-You apologize, _right now._ " He stomps one foot into the soft earth, trying to be stern but really only coming close to knocking himself over. "You cannot treat people that way… t-hey're not, not _playthings_ okay? Leave, them, alone. The people."

Bea lowers her throwing arm, stepping closer to the altercation.

"Oh, no. _No,_ do not give me none'a that, you _know better._ …Sure, sure, people aren't supposed to _be here,_ b-but…"

All of a sudden, the boy's head snaps up to see Bea wincing, regretting not watching her step. Small branches breaking is much louder when a kid in the woods seems to be _talking_ to his _pokemon._

He practically jumps out of his skin at the sight of her, hugging the mimikyu who has since withdrawn her shadowy hand and taken to wagging her "tail". Bea takes in a breath to speak to him, but he beats her to the punch.

"I'm sorry."

His eyes are invisible behind that mask, in the dim light of the Tangle, but Bea would bet they're wide as saucers based on his tone of voice alone. "She-e, umm, , …doesn't like people."

Bea. Nods, slowly.

"I see."

"P-Please don't be mad…"

The boy shrinks in on himself, a feat Bea had initially thought impossible.

"No, I. There is no reason for me to be angry. It must have been frightened. Apologies for disturbing you."

He tilts his whole head to one side. When he's sure you're looking at him, he speaks.

"No, you aren't, really. S-Shouldn't be out here anyways…," he laughs, and even his cadence feels bitter and grainy. "What, are you out here for, then… 's supposed to be off-limits for visitors…."

Bea is inclined to tilt her head in turn. "That's funny of you to say, when you're out here with your pokemon as well."

"…."

"… I'm training, if you must know. For the tournament to decide formally who will next succeed the Stow-on-side gym."

"… That sounds. Intense."

"It is. Trainers from across Galar are flocking in to try and steal a slice of a small town's glory."

"Really? I-I thought they barely knew, we exist…."

Bea shakes her head. "We? So you are from Stow-on-side, then."

The boy thinks for a moment, sitting up against the tree with Mimikyu in his lap. "Y-Yeah…."

"Interesting. I may as well be too." Bea mirrors his action, sitting cross-legged on the ground. "I'd thought that I'd seen you around."

The boy flinches at that. Bea swears she could see his hair practically stand on end, but it must be a trick of the light. "O-O-h. M, Maybe."

He pauses for a moment.

"You 'may as well be'…?" 

"Stow-on-side has been kind to me. I've lived here a while, now. It's full of good spots to train. The altitude tests you."

"T-That's good, at least. So what makes you want to challenge for the gym?"

"It's not meant to be a challenge," Bea states, sitting up a little straighter. "It's meant to be a proof-of-concept."

"… Oh," the boy nods a bit, clueless.

"My mother has been running the gym since before I was born, and her father before her. It'd be a shame, if one of our family were to fall out of the line of succession now."

The boy perks up a bit. "You want to make your family proud?"

"They won't be 'proud'. They are never 'proud' of anything. You either achieve or fail to meet expectation. All else simply raises the standard. It'd be a waste of time and resources to have sent me off to train and learn to live on my own only to all have been for nothing."

He lets his shoulders slump, grip loosening on Mimikyu. "O-h…. Why, why doesn't she just give you the title, then? Can't gym leaders just, pick?"

Something in Bea's face turns sour, but a deep breath suppresses it at once. Bea picks her head up, as though waking from a daze.

"I. I'm sorry. You don't need to hear someone else's problems, especially when it's so late, a--"

"No," he says, in only a marginally harsher tone than his general whisper of a voice. "I, I want to listen. It's okay… it just reminds me of something, is all."

He knocks on the tree behind him, gently. As though if he touched it any harder, either the trunk or his bone-thin fingers would shatter. A little sinistea drifts idly to his side. He mutters something to it, only for it to splash him with some of its tea.

"Can I come closer?" he asks, and Bea does not initially react. "I-Is that a thing, that is okay?"

"Hmm?" she blinks, figuring out that yes, he is, in fact, speaking to her now. "Alright."

The kid scoots up to the spot in front of her, carefully holding a chipped sinistea. "See, I always got told that, that it wasn't whether you did somethin' perfect or not, b-but that you did somethin' at all, that matters…," he turns over the cup, tracing its dents and cracks in the ceramic. "My mum and her family, used to make tea sets, and-d things in Stow-on-side… and dad said that they got very good at it, and people all over would ask them to make them. And granddad, granddad said to mum, 'you're getting older now, and you ought to make one, by yourself'. So she did, and it turned out positively awful. So she tried again, and it was a little better, but not a lot, but by the third time, she made this… and it's even special enough, it's got the little stamp on the underside, see?" He flips over sinistea, much to sinistea's chagrin.

"That… certainly is a rare cup, isn't it?" Bea stumbles over her own tongue, inspecting the little teacup. She doesn't quite have the heart to tell him that this teacup is from the late 1870s, and his father must have lied to him.

"Yeah… it's a little wonky, but I like it. Sinistea likes it too, hmm?"

Sinistea whistles as though on command.

"W-What I mean is, 's okay if you don't get this. I mean, I'm sure you're a really, really good trainer, but you're talking like losing one time will make you less good instead of, of teaching you," he shrugs, not quite knowing where the sentence should end.

"Right," Bea nods, though the words roll down her back not a moment later.

"I was, was gonna enter the tournament too. But…"

"Really? You were talking like you didn't even know there was one."

"A friend of mine told me I should try. I don't think I'm going to win, much, b-but it'll be nice to have a real match for once. S-She's an actress, an' I thought she was probably just kiddin' me, about how big it is, but if people are comin' in from all over it sounds… _really_ big."

"Not as big as Wyndon," Bea shrugs half-heartedly.

"If it's that important to you, I. I'm not sure that I even should…."

"You still can," Bea says, trying to force a smile into her tone. _Of course. It'll make it that much easier, facing off against a child with lazy work ethic and letting the more experienced challengers knock one another out of the ring. This kid is practically a free step up the bracket._ "No skin off my nose."

"… Hm."

The two sit in relative quiet for a moment, simply acclimating to the air of the Tangle between them. It’s Bea who breaks that silence. 

“What is your name, anyway? I should look out for you on the bracket, yeah?”

The boy picks his head up, tugging at the strap of his mask to pull it tighter. “Me? R-Right, I… ‘m Allister,” he nods, trying to strain a smile that he, for a moment, forgets that Bea cannot see. 

“Quite right, then. I’m Bea.”

“Bea,” he mutters under his breath, trying to commit the name to memory. “N-Nice meeting you, Bea.”

“Likewise,” she half-laughs, his attempts to seem _polite_ or _gentlemanly_ so… unnecessary. 

He backs up just a bit, head down as though he’s been scolded. 

“Hey, you’re alright there,” Bea starts, straightening out her shoulders. “Nothing to worry about. See?”

“There’s plenty in the Tangle to worry about. Should be glad that none of it is _here_.”

“And where else would it be, then?”

“Tangle’s a big place…,” Allister looks off into the distance, where what would usually be a horizon line turns an inky black. “All its creatures have their preferred places.”

“I can see that. I hardly ran into anything on the way here.”

“The pokemon don’t like to hang around this part of the Tangle much.”

“Oh?” Bea sits a little straighter, curiosity piqued. “Why do you say?”

“They’ve learned.”

Allister offers no further context, but the exhaustion in his voice tells its own story.

“... Ah. Well,” Bea says, rocking back only to launch herself up and land on her feet. “We had best get a move on then, yeah? It’s gotten awful late, after all.”

“I know the way back to town. If, you’re lost….”

“Wh- I am not _lost,_ ” she snaps, and regret sinks in with the click of her jaw. “... but if you’d be as kind, I wouldn’t deny you.”

“...Sure,” Allister breathes, picking up himself and his mimikyu before sauntering in front of her on unsteady feet. 

It doesn’t look as though he should be able to stand, let alone lead the way, but he cranes his neck around to call for her regardless.

“Are you coming?”

Bea snaps out of her little daze, quickly dashing to keep pace with him. “Of course I am!”

* * *

It takes them a matter of minutes to find the forest’s edge, and a moment more to step out onto the path just outside of the gym. 

“How did you do that,” says Bea, in a way that seems less like a question than an assertion. “We had to have been _miles_ into the woods, how….”

“Ah,” Allister shrugs, “so you’re new to _these_ woods, then. They like to shift around. Distort space and time a bit. You can’t look for where you’re going by where you’ve been, but where the things around you ought to be.”

Given Bea’s blank stare, the advice isn’t precisely… _received_

“I ought to show you sometime,” he mumbles, kicking around gravel under his shoe. “O-Or you could just stay on the path. The path doesn’t change. They have an agreement.”

Rather than ask questions, Bea is stunned by the sun setting over the sea.

“When I left, it was twilight.” 

“Time,” Allister mumbles, turning back to the mouth of the woods.”

“Wh- Hey, kid, _Allister_ , where are you off to? You live in Stow-on-side too, don’t you?”

“....”

“Can’t imagine your parents would be too pleased by you walking off into the woods again at this hour,” she strains a smile, though the joke does not appear to land. 

Allister is simply standing stock-still. Until, of course, he isn’t, head held high, speaking to no one but the Tangle itself. 

“It’s my fault.”

Bea blinks, uncertain of what to think of that. 

“Beg your pardon?”

“Why she’s not here anymore. It’s my fault.”

“... Allister, who’s ‘she’?”

“My mum,” he states, matter-of-factly. “I’m why she died.”

Bea takes a step closer, looking around through the low orange glow of the streetlamps. They are completely, and utterly alone. “Allister, I-I had no idea, I’m--”

“I want to do something that’ll make it have been worth it. If it had to happen, at least I can decide now it isn’t for nothing.”

His grip on his little sinistea is so strong, his fist is trembling in the lightest breeze. 

After a moment of careful deliberation, Bea decides to speak. 

“Of course it wasn’t for nothing, that’s very courageous of you.”

“Not really.”

“Well, I’m sure she’d be very proud of you.”

“What, for _participating?_ Nah. I’m sure I’d only just meet. _Expectation_.”

_Oh no._

“It’s not reasonable to expect that much of you, Allister, you’re still growing up. You’re what, nine?”

“Something like that,” he sighs, with a pronounced hollowness to the words. “It’s not reasonable of you either. I don’t care how old you are, it just _isn’t._ If they left you here, they don’t get a say in your direction anymore. Fight for yourself. Can you promise me that?”

Bea takes a moment in shocked silence.

“I can try.”

“... G-Good,” Allister nods, releasing the tension he’d built up in his chest. He lets go of a big breath he hadn’t been cognizant of holding, and nearly knocks himself over. The adrenaline has worn off.

Bea can’t help but, resting a hand on his shoulder, smile.

“Have you really been sleeping in the woods, then?”

“....”

“You look it.”

“H-Hey,,”

“I never said that was a bad thing. Thought it, sure, I’m a bit concerned for your safety, but I didn’t _say_ it.”

“Not exactly places left to go…” he mutters, seemingly sub-audible. He does not expect Bea to ruffle his hair and tug on the back of his coat collar.

“Yeah there is. I’ve got a sofa in my flat, and you, sir, are not sleeping on the ground tonight.”

Allister frantically checks for all of his dusk balls-- one, two, three, four, five-- and after counting off each team member, he turns to face her. “Y-You don’t, have to….”

“I insist.”

Allister, unaware of modern hospitality practices and social interactions in general, nods lightly and takes the hand she offers. Bea, perhaps equally socially ignorant, takes him along the path back to town proper without hesitation. They both wear their masks. Maybe that’s how they’ve come to be comfortable with one another so quickly.

“Okay.”

* * *

"Bea?"

She turns on her heel, eyes magnetically drawn to the couch. Allister is sitting there in a borrowed night shirt two sizes too big for him, covered in no fewer than three blankets by a Bea not used to doting.

"Break your legs."

"…."

She has to pause for an entire minute, scrambling to decode how she could have _possibly_ either threatened him or inadvertently offered to give shelter to a small malicious entity. It seems hard to believe, what with the way he tilts his masked face to project that he's confused. Almost like he's trying too hard, like he wants her to see across the distance between them, like he's….

"You mean break _a_ leg?"

"Oh yeah... I-It's that one."

 _Acting._ He'd said his friend was an _actress,_ he must have picked it up from her without quite knowing what it meant. Bea closes her eyes to hide how they roll.

"You too, Allister. Goodnight…."

"Goodnight."

The boy lays his head down on the pillow, Mimikyu and Sinistea nestled close by. Bea slowly, inches, the door, shut.

And smiles, before heading off to bed herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you know that [chainsaws were initially developed for use by midwives? And were originally operated by hand-crank.](https://www.businessinsider.com/chainsaws-were-originally-invented-for-helping-childbirth-not-cutting-wood-2018-6)
> 
> Childbirth is a dangerous thing, and I, for one, am grateful that it is much less so in many places with access to medical care in the modern day.
> 
> Anyway I bet you weren't expecting Lore, because I certainly wasn't when I started this chapter.


	2. When The Morning Comes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Allister stumbles, Mimikyu struggles, and Sinistea gains valuable experience in the art of haggling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: Let's make a tournament chapter!  
> Also me: Fight scenes? Never heard of her!

[ ](https://2sp00ky.tumblr.com/post/614149724345352192/in-which-allister-stumbles-mimikyu-struggles-and)

Morning comes, and it is all too soon.

Bea is already awake. _Has been_ awake, more like, and it's nigh impossible to tell for exactly how long just by listening to the commotion in the other room as her pokemon settle around for breakfast. The only thing that's woken you up, truthfully, is Mimi; even simply not being in the same place you left her is enough to jolt you from a sound semi-sleep, these days (you spend too much time corporeal to get away without resting, since you came back to town. You shouldn't need sleep, not after how much you've taken over the years, and yet you still feel exhausted in the moment after you sit up.) Your Mimikyu is headbutting the closed door.

If the little menace were taller and had thumbs, the world wouldn't know how to handle itself.

You drag yourself out of the little bed setup Bea had improvised for you the night before, for reasons you don't completely understand. She owes you nothing, hardly even _knows_ you and yet has decided to let you not only into her domain but to stay there, unsupervised, when you're planning to actively _challenge_ her later in the day. It doesn't make sense to you. Granted, people sparsely do. You fold the blankets into a neat stack to place on one of the cushions. Why did you agree? You're a ghost. They don't need sleep, or food, or _anything at all_ , because they are not alive. 

You pile the pillows carefully on top of the blankets, until the whole thing is freshly made up. You have had more than your fair share of practice.

It's strange. All of this is strange, really. The residences in Stow-on-side? Strange. This girl you'd swear you've caught only glimpses of and yet you have put yourself at her mercy? Strange. The idea of having real _battles?_

If you had a pulse, you're positive it'd be racing. Something about the idea, the _rush_ cancels out the paralyzing anxiety of being Known. In fact, in your excitement-fueled haste, you open the door for a long-suffering Mimikyu and breeze out the door.

Bea's Machamp stops mid-bite of curry to stare at you as though you've just broken some solemn vow of silence by daring to exist in the same space. While Mimi is bounding over to the food, Bea and Machamp appear to have their thoughts coincide.

"You wear suspenders?"

"Umm… y-yeah. Is that. Bad?"

"Old-fashioned, but respectable. You have a motif going on, I s'pose. Not sure I should even look at you until you're ready," she deadpans, and it takes a full thirty seconds for it to register with you as a joke. _Ready? Why, of course you're ready, you just got dressed, and-- hang on, if she can see your suspenders, you must not be wearing your coat! How could you possibly forget something so_

Your hand flies to your face, only to find a distinct lack of mask underneath. 

The moment afterward, you set a standing record for the fastest Bea has ever seen you move.

* * *

The sun is hardly peeking over the horizon and yet Bea is already back out with her pokemon, priming her Sirfetch'd's accuracy with its leek. She trains, you've noticed, even just in the short time you've been around. She trains so much.

It occurs to you that _Bea_ is the mysterious presence joining you on your adventures scaling Stow-on-side's steep cliff faces, a kindred spirit; she climbs to hone her pokemon's skill and physique along with her own, where you simply have no fear of falling. Where you are ambivalent-- Play Rough can miss, Protect can fail, and even a minimized pokemon can still be stomped and snuffed out-- she is actively trying to better her team. You watch her swing a large stick at Sirfetch'd, the two locked in combat, splinters straining at the point of contact between their weapons. Bea looks no worse for wear. There's not a drop of sweat on her brow, matching Sirfetch'd blow-for-blow, a solid wall of muscle that refuses to budge from where her heels have dug into the ground. Even when her improvised longsword snaps like a twig, she's hardly worse for wear.

It's incredible. She is an incredible trainer. An incredible _human._

You flex your fingers, counting blades of grass you can see through the shape of your hand. 

If you want any chance of surviving the tournament long enough to face her, you're going to have to square up. You send out your pokemon, your dear friends, one by one. Corsola is the first to toddle over to you, in spite of her obvious disadvantage, curious as to why your hands have curled into fists. She, of course, lacks any of her own to retaliate, a fact you realize about a centimeter from slamming your hand into her shell which. Opens up, scooping up Corsola while the other reaches for Mimi-- right. Runerigus? Maybe Gengar, Gengar ought to do the trick.

The moment he emerges from his dusk ball, Gengar takes one look at your face to know that you now mean Business. It's not as though you were saying you'd challenge the gym in jest before, but there's a spark of determination there that takes him by surprise. His first instinct, sneaky thing he is, is to snicker at your expense and melt into the shadows.

It is much more difficult to punch a shadow than you'd initially expected.

After moments of fruitless searching, the overgrown spectre shoots up from behind you, smothering you in a hug that plays out like a Shadow Tag. You cannot hope to escape from it.

Bea and Sirfetch'd take one look over at you as you struggle in Gengar's grasp, kicking and flailing half-heartedly before coming to terms with the idea of futility. She sighs, shaking her head. You can't quite hear what she whispers to Sirfetch'd, but the duck laughs in your general direction too loudly for you to ignore. Gengar, seeing you wince instead of laugh and insist you be spun around like you would in the Tangle, begrudgingly puts you down. There is a lot of training to do, and so very, _very_ little time to do it.

You need to make certain that all of your team is present and accounted for. Gengar and Corsola have made their presence known, sure, but you feel the need to count out the rest, a traditional challenger's team of five. If you're going to be a gym leader (you, a gym leader? No no, if you're going to make it up to the future gym leader for having, essentially, invaded her house and appropriated her couch) you're going to have to get used to working with limitations on you. Luckily, you happen to have exactly five eligible pokemon. Gengar and Corsola, Mimi, Runerigus, and…

Wait.

_Where is Sinistea?_

* * *

He took off running before he could think for long enough to talk himself out of it.

You know Sinistea is important to him, though they've never exactly explained _why_. You've asked the little spirit and they only slosh around their cup in reply, as though that's supposed to mean anything. You've also tried to ask Allister, but he's only ever told you that now is not a good time to talk about it. You are starting to think there will never be a good time to talk about it.

As you hop and skip after him, nearly falling out of your brilliant disguise, you can't help but feel the slightest bit...

No. No, you are certain he'd do the same for you, all things equal. For the rest of the party too. He just seems shifted out of his better sense, with Sinistea on the loose. Something about that little spirit keeps him grounded in reality. Now is as good a time as you will ever have to investigate. 

It’s an adventure, trying to navigate the steep jutting cliffs of Route Six without revealing yourself to the oppressive rays of the gently rising sun. It blows in the wind with the altitude, but you manifest a claw to keep it held tightly to you. It would be far simpler of you to levitate, granted, but it takes energy you just don’t have; not if you want to maintain your stamina in a fight, or expect to withstand whatever threats are launched your way. Sinistea is smaller and more amorphous than you, having borrowed its physical form instead of having to make and maintain it. What they lack in speed they more than make up for in maneuverability. 

It’s practically exhausting just to get back down to solid, stable ground, and you trip over your disguise on the last step of your descent. You tumble into the false head of your disguise and faceplant into dirt and stone. 

You sigh. There’s still work to be done.

* * *

They have seen the humans do this a hundred, thousand, hundred-thousand times. It shouldn’t be that hard.

Sinistea whistles to get the attention of the shopkeep, setting out his dubious antiques like, they suppose, he does _every_ morning, or at least every morning that they have been paying attention. The entire practice of bartering is foreign to the little teacup, considering that their interactions with non-Allister beings over the century have been tenuous at best, but is not exclusively human either. They've seen the morgrem in the Tangle trade berries with one another, particularly sitrus for grepa, even cutting deals with the local hattrem on occasion (though the two groups, territorial as they get, can only sparsely be called allies). 

Something of value for something else of value. Obviously, if Sinistea and their companions are going to live in this town for a while, it is best not to aggravate the locals. Stealing is only going to get them all a heavy glare from the shopkeep, if not…

Well, really, they aren't quite sure what _would_ happen. They've already decided they'd rather not find out. 

Sinistea whistles again, and it finally seems to capture the man's attention. 

"Hmm? And what are you doing here, little guy…."

They whistle, jostling around the tea enough to spill over the edge of the cup in the shape of a pointing hand. 

"Eh? What about this pot?" 

Sinistea settles down and floats onto the table beside the pot, a touch of old separated black tea dripping onto a dollar-store tablecloth. Another whistle. 

"Hey, now, this isn't just any pot I'll have you know!"

The sound Sinistea makes buzzes a bit more than it rings, an airless _sigh_ . They point to several cracks and scrapes along the outside, though as they look at it further, it seems… distantly familiar. The blue swirls trail into spirals that blend and trail up to a golden decal around the rim. This pot, of all pots they could have set their sights on, is _beautiful_.

So beautiful, it matches their teacup. 

“It’s… a bit _chipped,_ maybe, but it’s still a good piece.”

Sinistea whistles with such a high pitch that it’s practically inaudible. They drop several kasib berries onto the table, stretching their aqueous form towards the pot.

“Oh no you don’t!” the shop owner scoffs, sweeping the pot off of the table. “This isn’t a toy. It’s very fragile, and very _old_ , certainly worth more than common _berries_. Now go on, then, off you go!”

The tea seems to slump as it sloshes back into the cup. No matter how much they whistle, and point, and try to get across to the man that _no no, these berries are good berries, very good berries, good luck berries, please put the pot back down,_ he doesn’t seem to understand. They may as well be yelling to the trees, and at least on occasion _they_ listen to reason. Berries are all that they have to offer, after all, and they are literally unable to articulate exactly _how_ important this is.

Allister doesn’t believe they can pull through with a victory. He has tried to motivate the team, but with such an uneven balance of trained and untrained pokemon, evolved and unevolved, jokesters and aggressors and avoidants and _pacifists_ , there is no way they can match up to even Bea’s team alone. They’ll be swept aside by some well-oiled machine the moment they step in the door unless they can do something, and can do it just beyond the crack of dawn. The only thing they can do, however, is manipulate the few things within their grasp of control.

They need to make themself better, for him. They need this pot to evolve. Maybe then Allister will smile, once, with a victory he cannot dismiss as just lobbed his way. If a bad day can last seventy years, maybe a good one can too. 

Those berries are the most valuable thing they have. 

Except. They do, after all, have their old shed teacup...

It might not be over yet.

* * *

After a half hour of scouring every crag and crevice of Route Six, you can’t find a single sign of your beloved Sinistea. Not only is the tea wearing off, leaving you utterly translucent and ruining the handshake you’ve been practicing for after your matches, but there’s no sign the little ghost was ever here _at all_ . You’d considered, for a moment, that Sinistea may have gone home-- to Bea’s home, that is, as Sinistea seems fond of scoping out their own little corner of her kitchen cabinet-- to get away from the stress of it all. You know that _you_ would certainly love to do the same, the uneasy acidic burn of nausea in the back of your throat from considering that you’ll be one of many, part of a _bracket,_ surrounded by _screaming, cheering people._ So many people. 

You tighten your mask, and decide to indulge in a breath or two.

You saw her _breathing_ between sets of lunges and punches practiced with her Machoke. A big emphasis on it, breathing, though you’ve never been very good at it. She has it down to a system and a science that you can only begin to understand. 

Copying her won’t bring your precious friend Sinistea back. 

Besides, how exactly are you meant to train them? You cannot breathe fire, or generate electricity, though you really have tried; you can’t sing a siren’s fainting song or bind souls or do anything tangible with the curses you lay on the living, feeble as the words come anyhow. You’ve never been able to launch a patch of condensed shadow from your hands as you’ve seen Gengar do so many times before. Bea is _there_ for her pokemon, in body and spirit, never subjecting them to a pain she isn't willing to take on herself. You cannot do the same. You are merely the echo of an unremarkable human, you think, destined to stay confined to the sidelines at best in battle. The fleeting feeling of levity, the rush in your ears and memory of ice shooting through your veins, the vigor that comes with battling is all borrowed. You are dependent on your pokemon, and you cannot make yourself better for them. Do they even want to compete in the tournament?

Is it your selfishness that's driven Sinistea away? 

You try to smooth your hair back, but it refuses to lie still. You're tempted to perch on this rooftop for the rest of the morning, watching the challengers file in, letting your team be at liberty to do as they please without command or obligation, not even to stay at your side. If you cannot abide by strict, clear, consistent rules, then maybe you'll just have to settle for no rules at all. 

Of course not. You know that's absurd. What would Opal think?

Is Opal going to come see your matches? 

"Hey."

The sudden noise scares you halfway through the roofing tiles, taking a good deal of concentration to fish your foot out from within the ceiling.

"Kid. What are you doing up here?”

You meet eye-to-eye with a man in his mid-twenties, idly hanging his feet over the corrugated sheet metal roof of the house you’ve unsubtly snuck upon. Seems you’ve been beaten to the people-watching punch.

“It’s not exactly safe up here, you know. As I say not as I do,” he shrugs, a look over the edge betraying the split-second he takes to figure out his own hypocrisy. “At least come sit, then? Looks like the wind could blow you away, there.”

“... Yeah…,” you squeak, not having expected to need to prime yourself for basic social interaction for ten, maybe twenty more minutes. 

The man simply laughs as you take up your by-now-usual spot at the very corner of the roof in question, looking out to the bright banners fluttering below. “You’re probably used to it, though. Ever since I came back to this ol’ town, I’ve had to get used to a lot of things.”

You swing your feet, trying to burn off the idle sting of staying in place while Sinistea has run off to places unknown. You feel the bind of obligation snake around your angle every time he pauses his breaths to speak back up, reeling you further and further out from your mission. You need to retaliate. _Fight back._ “Y-Yeah… town is old, innit?”

You hang your head, but refuse to call it shame. You’re just looking for Sinistea in a new direction. That’s all. 

“Very. I remember when I grew up here, and practically everything is still the same. Well. The Centre has better equipment, I think. And a better nurse. And a new generation of nare-do-wells has decided to camp out up here, ain’t that so?”

You nod, because you’re more afraid of the tirade you’re training yourself to expect if you make him feel insulted than the ground below you bobbing closer and further away.

“Name’s Romeo.”

He hasn’t looked at you since you first stopped staring at one another, but your anxiety is still pacing in its spirals around the inside of your chest. You try and wrangle your tongue into a reply, but it seems to be refusing you at every turn. You simply sputter a bit, and bite your tongue for its insubordination. You flinch as your eyes flick up, waiting for the judgemental stare.

Instead, his gaze is focused out at the slowly accumulating crowd gathering towards the front of the gym. He smiles, a bit.

“You here for the tournament? Seems like all anyone ever comes here for goes on in that stadium, for better or worse.”

You simply nod. He seems to accept it. 

“I remember my first one too. Even went for the whole gauntlet, once. Felt more fear then than I ever did perched up here, you know?”

You… nod again, but harder, this time. _Yes. Exactly. Well, not exactly, but_ exactly _?_

“Wasn’t worth all they hyped it up, not really. Every thirteen-year-old goes for the gauntlet, and half of them don’t make it this far. The ones that do always deserve a little boost up to the next challenge, but there’s no telling what type the new gym will be, sorry to say. I almost feel lucky I made it up to ol’ Opal.”

You perk up, head tilting just enough for him to glimpse your interest out of the corner of his eye.

“Yeah, Opal’s gym’s the one that stopped me. Old bat’s got a few tricks up her sleeve, but I think I finally figured out how she did it.”

“... S-She’s a good battler,” you offer, not completely sure ‘battler’ is a word, but it’s too-too late now. 

“No no, how she could go up on stage every night like that and never feel nervous. She told me I had the second-worst bout of stage fright she’d ever seen, and I had to ‘find my rhythm’, whatever that was meant to mean. I’m sure she didn’t think of it so literally, but that was the day I figured out my passion was never really for combat.”

“What was it for, then?” you ask, looking over this man from his hat to the tip of his shoe.

“For _music,_ ” the man grins, a touch of sing-songish melody in his voice. “I have a band of maractus, we all play together. Or, I play, and they dance. When they get a good rhythm going, you can feel it down to your bones. Battling is a lot like music— well, not in how you do it, but what it makes you _feel_. A good battle should move you, shouldn’t it?”

“... I-I hadn’t thought of it like that,” you whisper, looking up to the sun as it rises in the east over the treetops of the Tangle. Maractus, hmm….

Oh, that’s right. The hour’s coming ever closer.

“T-Thank you, sir. I’m, so-sorryIgottogonow BYE,” you bow your head to defer yourself before sliding yourself down the edge of the roof without thinking twice.

“Kid, h-hang on, you’ll break your legs that way!” Romeo shouts, reaching for your hand even as it fails to stay physical enough to grasp. 

You, for your part, touch the ground entirely unharmed. You shrug. “As I say not as I do?”

He nods in a solemn sort of respect as you run in the opposite direction of the gym, sights set on a spot of ground moving just a touch too much.

* * *

It has taken entirely too long to haul your stubby eight-inch-tall form across the route, and even then you've nearly been stepped on three, maybe four times by inattentive challengers. You may or may not have hexed a few on their merry way to the gym. You _know_ Allister doesn't approve of your hexes, but it's not like you're _cursing them to meet a grisly fate, or anything_ . Just to have a spell of rotten luck. Rocks in their shoes, maybe. Really, you're being _merciful,_ considering they could have genuinely hurt you. You find it hard to believe he could object to you doling out bad hair days instead of beheadings. 

Even so, by the time you reach town proper, you're exhausted with no sights on Sinistea. In fact, all you can see is the old antique seller with a cup that looks an awful lot like… 

_Oh no._

You hop up to the shopkeep, your ribbon swaying in the breeze behind you as you flip up the head of your disguise, its nose held high as you peruse the establishment. 

“What is with you little spirits today? What part of _git_ don’t you _get_?!” The man sighs, belabored, practically sweeping you off of the table with the back of his hand. 

Well you _never_.

You hiss, hopping up to the teacup on the edge of the table and grabbing it with your spare set of claws. It doesn’t exactly fit under your disguise, but like _hell_ he’ll be displaying the emptied vessel of your friend. Maybe if you scour the ground, you can see where their tea spilled out. If you’ve come in time enough, you might even be able to gather their droplets back together enough to keep them from fading, though _this man_ doesn’t seem to see it that way. He swipes the cup out from under your hand, squinting at his conquest strangely. Your shadowy hands wrap around your “tail” like it’s no longer an appendage but a _wooden bat, ready to swing straight into_ —

Something taps your shoulder, and you startle so hard you leap out of your disguise for a flash. The same small hand helps to smooth it back down again.

_‘Tea?_

You blink in disbelief, below your beloved rag, at the unmistakable infuriatingly calm demeanor of your current least-favorite sentient blob of leaf water. They sigh, tsk-tsk- _tsk_ ing you as usual in that airy voice of theirs.

_What are you doing here, I thought you were out practicing?_

_Practicing my patience, maybe! Why aren’t you in your cup, ‘Tea?_

_It’s fine, I just found_ —

“Isn’t this a beauty,” says the shopkeep, oblivious to your posturing threats. You finally stop bristling, settling against the leg of the fold-out laundry table above the two of you.

_You gave away your cup so you could evolve?_

_Hmm? Oh no, all the pots this guy sells are fakes. Not worth the mud they’re made from. I’d know. I found this one behind the Centre, it even has the stamp! See? It’s perfect, Alli will be so happy to have another part of his tea set…._

You huff, gathering all the strength you can muster to climb your way back up to the top. _That’s great, ‘Tea, but I doubt he’ll be as happy to lose one of your dumb tea dealies._

You hop and haggle your way up to the seller’s shoulder, the newly-evolved Polteageist floating not far as they watch your determined struggle. They finally pitch in an ounce of phantasmal power to help enhance your claws, since if you can’t make it unnoticed you’ll simply have to _intimidate instead_.

You find yourself swiftly whisked off of the man’s shoulder as he turns around to greet a new, _human_ face at his table.

“Dr, dreadfullysorry, sir.” Allister plasters on a smile, hugging you the moment he has his hands on you. “Business going slow?”

“‘Fraid so,” the man sighs. “Though these two have been pestering me all morning.”

“S-Sorry about that Casper, they’ve gotten. All awful kinds of riled up….”

“Oh, I’d believe it. Tournament season does that to you, I suppose. Didn’t realize they were yours.”

“W-Well, I’ll have to have a talk with this one,” he sighs, somewhat resigned as he glances toward Polteageist. They seem puzzled, having done, so far as they can tell, everything right as always. They can’t see you stick your tongue out in a teasing gesture beneath your little cloak.

“You’re a good kid, Allister. Make sure you wrangle those stray spirits, alright?”

“‘Course sir,” he bows his head for the fifteenth time since he’s started speaking, and you headbutt him just gently enough to remind him to keep his eyes straight ahead. “C-Could I have my, my teacup back, though?”

“Oh what, you’re in no mood to make some pocket change?”

“It’s my mum’s….” Allister trails off, as he often does, but something in his face that you don’t understand hits like a freight train. You nuzzle him, if only because it feels right. 

“Right, then.”

The three of you drift toward the Pokemon Center, where Bea has decided to lead the rest of your little team. 

“You’ll owe me for dragging these three through the dust,” you hear Bea deadpan from somewhat-afar, spooking the lights out of Allister until she musses his hair with one hand. “I’m joking,” she follows, “but I think Gengar’s been making eyes at my soul and I’d really rather he not.”

Allister is currently fussing over Sinistea-now-Polteageist in the moments before recalling them, and everyone else, into their appropriate dusk balls. You simply stay and watch. You know well that Allister is going to need you, walking into that crowd. 

It’s one of the many things you know, even if you aren’t certain why or how. You know your companionship with Allister is a nudge past “nice” and more towards a “need”, just as you know seeing him sad is the last thing you want at a time like this. You don’t quite know, in turn, how you’re so certain the shopkeep would have earned a whack with your tail-club when Bea, in a moment’s jest, almost sent him into a tizzy and _hasn’t._

Then again, there are many things you have yet to understand. You’ve only skulked around this planet for a few months, at most. Your intuition is still developing, still growing; perhaps there is something to be said for having lived, however briefly, with psychics.

Morning crawls into day as you, Allister, and Bea trudge toward the Stow-on-side gym tournament.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not to be confused with [another instance in which one of Allister's team disappears.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21458860/chapters/55010830) Sorry for the timing of that story beat, but I've known Sinistea was going to do this since I started the AU, just not precisely how. 
> 
> Answering questions nobody had: the NPC that trades you a type-advantage for the gym you have in exchange for a maractus he could catch like six feet out of town? He just wants to be Helpful.
> 
> Also, the maractus that doesn't do their job is daydreaming of being in a band/dance troupe like a disillusioned teenager listening to a middle-aged woman yell through an intercom about how awful they are within a second of starting to interact for minimum wage.
> 
> Also also this takes place before the town is truly desensitized to Allister Doing Weird Dangerous Things For Fun as a municipal entity, I think. Once he becomes gym leader they sort of assume either he knows what he's doing or it's simply better overall not to ask.


End file.
